He lay flat on the floor and listened to the tramp of heavy feet as they came into the office, heard the mumble of many voices.
A closer sound, a stealthy padding, edged into his brain and he moved swiftly, alarm growing in his mind, but even as he moved, hands came out of the darkness and closed around his throat.
Maddened by unreasoning fear, Burns fought to break away, arching his back, twisting, bucking like a locoed horse, tearing at the hands that throttled him. But the fingers held and tightened while the breath whistled in his throat and darkness churned within his brain.
From somewhere far away he heard the rasp of a striking match, a tiny, terrible sound that penetrated through the buzzing in his skull—the rattle of a lamp chimney being lifted. Then light flared in his face and even as he fought he knew that someone in the sheriff’s office had lit a lamp and the light was sifting through the attic hole.
The fingers were steel bands now that shut off even the whistle in his throat and inside his head the black ball grew and even while he still clawed feebly at the constricting fingers, the blackness exploded with a shrieking roar and was a pinwheel of light that hissed within his brain.
He felt himself pitching forward, head slamming on the floor—then, suddenly, the fingers had left his throat and there was an arm around his shoulders, lifting him into a sitting position. He gulped great breaths of air and inside his brain the pinwheel slowed down and there was a soft voice in his ear, a frightened voice.
“Take it easy, bub,” the voice said. “Just take it easy, now. I didn’t know it was you. So help me, I didn’t know.”
Words rose to Burns’ tongue, but his tongue refused to say them. He choked and gasped, gulped for air.
Bob Custer! Custer choking him, not knowing who it was. he sat up straighter and stared at the man who squatted face to face with him.
In the office below boots crunched across the floor.
A voice said sharply: “Be still, can’t you. I tell you I heard something up there in the attic.”
The sheriff’s voice rumbled back: “Ah, hell, Carson, you’re spooky, that’s all. This Burns has got you on the prod.”
“Spooky, eh,” said Carson, viciously. “Where are Burns’ guns?”
“On the desk,” the sheriff said. “Right where I left them, on the …”
His rumble trailed off and ran down. “Maybe,” the sheriff agreed, reluctantly, “you did hear something after all.”
Crouched beside the ladder hole, Burns and Custer heard the sheriff stalk into the corridor, could sense the man standing down below, staring at the hole.
His bellow came up to them. “Burns, you better come down. If you don’t we’ll plumb come up and root you out.”
Custer’s voice was sharp and crisp. “You got two of us to root out, sheriff. You better bring plenty of men along when you come to do it. Men that are ready to die!”
Boots scuffed hurriedly back along the corridor and Carson shrieked angrily: “Go on up and get them! What are you standing there for?”
“First man that does, gets it in the guts,” said Custer and although he did not speak above an ordinary tone, there was no doubt that those in the office heard him.
A gun coughed sullenly from downstairs and a bullet splintered the floor a good ten feet from the attic hole, plunked against the roof.
Burns rubbed his aching throat.
“What was you doing, messing around a jail?”
“Figured you might be in it,” Custer told him. “Ann told me you stood off the posse and when I got there I couldn’t find hide nor hair of you. Figured, then, they hadn’t killed you outright.”
“Why didn’t you bring your men?”
“Couldn’t. Got worried about things, you see, and started back alone. Met Ann on the trail.”
In the office another gun crashed and another bullet chewed its way through the attic floor.
“We sure are in one hell of a fix,” Burns said, dolefully. “Cooped up in this place. Sooner or later they’ll figure out a way to smoke us out.”
Other guns were bellowing now, bullets chunking faster and faster through the flooring.
The sheriff was bellowing. “Stop that shooting! You ain’t doing any good. You ain’t coming within a mile of them.”
Carson’s voice dripped acid at him. “Just how do you plan to get them, sheriff?”
“Starve them out,” the sheriff told him. “They can’t get out, nohow. All we got to do is just sit…”
“I have a better way,” snapped Carson. His feet moved purposefully across the floor.
“Hey,” the sheriff yelled, “you can’t do that. You’ll burn down the place.”
“Sure,” said Carson. “That’s exactly what I mean to do.”
The light that sifted up through the attic hole danced weirdly as Carson lifted the lamp, poised it for the throw.
“No!” screamed the sheriff.
Glass crashed in the corridor below the hole and a sheet of flame puffed out, flame that flared, then licked swiftly up the walls.
Burns leaped to his feet, stood stricken as the ladder hole became a fiery mouth…a mouth that gushed flame and smoke, lighting up the attic.
Custer grabbed at his arm.
“Quick,” he gasped. “Through the roof.”
Burns jerked his arm free. “They’d pot us like squirrels,” he said.
Swiftly he ran his eye around the room, saw the hatchet lying on the rickety table. With a leap, he was at the table, snatching up the hatchet.
“The floor,” he yelled.
Smoke billowed down upon them and the flame, funneled through the ladder hole, reached and curled against the roof.
Kneeling, Burns inserted the hatchet blade in a crack between two flooring boards, pried with all his might. Nails creaked protestingly.
“Grab hold,” he yelled at Custer. “Pull!”
He coughed as smoke swept down to the end of the room. A glowing spark fell on the back of his neck, burned agonizingly.
Cooler air puffed up from the cell room as Custer ripped away a board, flung it to one side. Nails screeched again as Burns pried at another board. Squealing thinly, it came loose.
“Drop down,” Burns yelled at Custer.
“But…”
“Get down there!” shrieked Burns. “It’s the only way.”
He reached out, tugged at Custer, and the man let himself down, dropped to the earth floor.
Hurling the hatchet away, Burns followed him, thudded on the floor. Staggering, he righted himself, stood for a moment to get his bearing in the flame lighted room.
The box that had served as a table stood in its corner and beside it gaped the tunnel.
“Follow me,” said Burns.
On his hands and knees he crawled into the hole, wriggled his way along, saw the circle of light appear ahead of him.
Cautiously, he poked his head out.
Flames leaping from the roof of the jail lighted up the night and in the flickering light, Burns saw two men standing off to one side, guns in hand, watching the roof intently.
Waiting for us to chop our way out, he told himself. Swell chance we’d had if we’d tried to do it.
Gathering his body together, bracing his hands, he flung himself out of the tunnel, stumbled as he hit the ground, fought desperately to keep his balance. Hands clawing at his guns, he spun on his toes.
Yelling, the two men were swinging around to face him and his guns came up.
Flame speared out at him and lead chugged past his cheek. Then his guns were hammering, left and right, left and right—with that old rhythmic cadence that spelled sudden death.